


Blood of the Covenant

by Zjol



Category: League of Legends
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-02 01:12:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5228204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zjol/pseuds/Zjol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're still with those Noxian fellows, aren't you?"</p><p>He paused before giving a forced chuckle. "Well, they really know how to party."</p><p>Caitlyn reached out and lifted his hair, letting more light touch his neck, just to catch a glimpse of the dark spots circling his pale skin, the ghost of a hand taunting her. Most were flat redness, but smaller marks were dotted with a sickly hue of purple.</p><p>"You're far too young to party with those people," she said gently. She let his hair fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

"It looks worse than it actually is."

Caitlyn watched him with unveiled disbelief, a cutting remark held tightly on her tongue as her eyes darted to the swollen cheek and the bruised neck. She didn't miss the slight grimace that grasped his face as he slowly sat himself down onto the leather ottoman in her living room. The controlled, hesitant motion of sitting warned her that there were more injuries below his neck and she scrunched her nose in repentance, grieving silently over the lack of protection she was able to give. She turned her head away with uneasy sorrow, hoping Ezreal hadn't caught her expression. He didn't need another source of stress in his life.

He was pretending to relax now, quipping jokes and giving small chuckles to ease her worries, but the restraint painfully gripping his voice only served the opposite and she shook her head to herself.

It had been late, just past 2pm, when Caitlyn awoke to small knocks at her front door. Late night visitation was unheard of, especially at this hour, so she had sensed some urgency behind it.

Vi was still asleep beside her, a heavy sleeper complete with snores, undisturbed by the unprecedented knocks. Caitlyn had not wanted to wake her up, opting to quietly leave the bedroom to answer the door. She wasn't completely sure on what she had expected. In hindsight, she supposed she did expect Ezreal or some other fellow Piltovian, but she hadn't expected him bearing small nicks and great bruises, most notably the reddened cheek, framed finely with his disheveled hair.

Now Vi was up and awake, busy making tea and a snack despite Ezreal's protests. Caitlyn knew Vi had a soft spot for the boy, treating him like a young brother or even like a son.

"Let me see it, Ez."

He gave her a reluctant look. "It's ok, I just. I just needed some place to rest for a bit," he began to fidget with the hem of his shirt. "I think I'm g—" He began to rise from his seat before Caitlyn grabbed his arm.

"You're always welcome to stay here, Ezreal, but please, darling, let me see your cheek, at least."

"I'm fine, Cait," he said quietly. He sat down, nevertheless. He looked tired, eyes sunken, the non-bruised cheek sallow. It didn't help that his hair was a mess, blond flyaways glowing in the light. The fact that his clothes were on and not torn or ruffled too horribly was able to let Caitlyn relax a bit. She had been worried about his recent endeavours and she had an inkling that this was connected to it.

"You're not fine, love," she muttered, a hand on his chin. She tilted his head towards the light and inspected his cheek. It was a sizeable mark, made by a rather large hand, but it wasn't too bad. The skin appeared to just be raised from the hit or whatever contact caused the redness, but it was going to heal up fine. She looked down at his neck. This, she felt, was more alarming at the closer look. Ezreal pulled away.

"It's just some tiny bruises," he assured. "I'm fine. Or I will be." Caitlyn sat back, bemused.

"What happened?"

"I just went a little too far and—"

"You're still with those Noxian fellows, aren't you?"

He paused before giving a forced chuckle. "Well, they really know how to party."

Caitlyn reached out and lifted his hair, letting more light touch his neck, just to catch a glimpse of the dark spots circling his pale skin, the ghost of a hand taunting her. Most were flat redness, but smaller marks were dotted with a sickly hue of purple.

"You're far too young to party with those people," she said gently. She let his hair fall. Caitlyn didn't want to engage into the maternal side of self, but Ezreal was needlessly heading down a dark path right in front of her. He had been hurt and she was sure it was only going to escalate further. He was a bright young man, attractive, but far too naive for his own sake.

Vi walked out of the kitchen balancing a platter of tea paraphernalia and small sandwiches and biscuits. She motioned Ezreal to make space for her on the ottoman before she sat down as Caitlyn took the platter from her, relocating it to the coffee table. Vi was already inspecting his face and neck, then his hands and wrist. He pulled back and crossed his arms with a flustered look.

"I'm fine," he repeated. "Cait already looked me over."

"Ez, don't even lie to me," Vi said, all matter of fact, as she handed him a sandwich on a plate before taking her own. They sat, just eating, and Caitlyn was drinking her tea; it would have felt like a normal friendly visit if not for the fact that it was two o'clock in the morning and Ezreal was rather roughed up. Vi wiped her mouth with a napkin and took a small drink of the tea, turning to Ezreal with scrutinizing expression. "Was it Talon?"

The blond looked alarmed, coughing up the last bite of his sandwich. "No! Of course not, he would never."

Caitlyn and Vi exchanged disbelieving looks. "Well," Vi continued with an addled tone, "was it one of the brothers?"

Ezreal shook his head. "It's fine, it doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does," Vi asserted. "Some fucking fuck hurt you. It matters." Caitlyn looked uneasy about Vi's crass language, as did Ezreal.

"It wasn't any of them." He paused, looking up at Caitlyn and Vi. "Darius was the one to pull the guy off. I know you must think they're terrible people, but they're not. They even made sure I made it to your place safe."

Bewildered, Caitlyn asked, "They walked you to our house?"

Ezreal shrugged. "No, Talon didn't exactly walk me home, but he was drunk and less inconspicuous than usual, and I guess he shadowed me to make sure I was okay."

"What about Draven?" Vi asked, finishing her sandwich.

Ezreal shrugged again, suddenly abashed. "What about him?"

"What was he doing? Darius was there and so was Talon. But you didn't mention Draven."

He brought his sandwich up, seemingly considering her question with far too much deliberation. "He was there, but he was doing his own thing." He didn't elaborate.

Caitlyn sensed a sort of tension that rose onto his features and Vi didn't seem to care too much about that issue anyways, she was far too busy with concocting a volatile plan to wreak havoc on the perp. "So who's the fuck that Darius had to pull off?"

Ezreal shifted in his seat. "Some guy. Don't know him."

Caitlyn didn't feel like it was in Ezreal's best interest to stay awake to answer to their little impromptu interrogation. She caught a dense glimmer of exhaustion in his eyes and she felt her heart drop. He was tired and they were keeping him up, but he was too much of a polite boy to decline their questions.

"Dear, we're going to let you sleep. Take the usual guest room," Caitlyn said, beginning to gather the plates and cups onto the tray.

Taking her partner's cue, Vi joined in on the tidying. "Don't be afraid to wake us if you need something," Vi added. She gave him a hearty pat on the back before taking the teapot into her hands. She was introspective for a moment as she looked down at the porcelain sheen, her pink locks falling from behind her ear. Then she shook her head and met Ezreal's gaze. "Get some rest."

He nodded slowly, unsure and uncertain.

\--

Ezreal laid in the guest bed in the guest room, enveloped comfortably in the crisp, clean sheets. Caitlyn and Vi often made sure their offer of hospitality was well-known to him—he thought of them fondly as parents and he was certain they felt the same. They were always there to support him or to pick him up after some bad choices, or there to talk to about their Piltover background. They were lovely people, lovely parental figures.

And like parents, they both had a habit of prying and interrogating. It didn't quite help that both of them came from a police background, where they had worked together as a team to take down suspects. Ezreal often felt guilty answering their questions altogether, feeling like he was under scrutiny and study with their watchful eyes.

Vi had asked about Draven and Ezreal wasn't ready to talk about him, especially not to Caitlyn and Vi—they both had a knack for being able to read the smallest, subtle signs, they would know.

Draven was the least physical out of the Noxians. Surprisingly, or maybe unsurprisingly, Darius was overly so—always with a hand on Ezreal's shoulder or on his back, guiding him through the masses. Or sitting closely until their arms touched. Darius was the most likely to seek physical confirmation without the affection.

And Ezreal didn't mind, not at all. Darius was a large man of an equally great status as the Noxian military general; he wasn't going to deny that it gave him comfort and sense of security when Darius was around. He was a gruff man in nature, but his intentions were never less than pure. He was the same towards his brother; always touching, flicking his hair, checking his face, his hands, and always trailing a solid palm across his shoulders, blade to blade—but they would never hug or hold each other, it was never the touch of affection, just purely for utilitarian purposes of health and wellbeing regulation. Darius was a straightforward man with little need for intimacy, platonic or romantic.

Ezreal curled onto his side, absentmindedly running his fingers along the edge of the bruising on his neck. It didn't hurt, just a tad raw. He knew it showed up brightly against the pallor of his skin, making it more alarming than it ought to be. He scoffed into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, images of the early night making him internally cringe in regret.

It had been just another night. Talon wanted to go drinking in a Noxian populated district known for its nightlife, Draven always agreed to a night out, and Darius would never leave his dear brother alone in a sketchy club. Ezreal had been hanging around them because of Talon—it was a strange arrangement, Ezreal recalled. Talon had a fondness for Lux and, being a Noxian, he could never directly go to her and Garen would never ever let him near. In some respects, Ezreal found Talon to be a bit of a coward—though, a coward with a need to be nervous, because who wouldn't admit Garen was a bit of an imposing character?

So Talon started prodding around. It began as a way to talk to Ezreal about her and ask for advice (though the Noxian would never call it "asking for advice"). It got to the point where he had a chance to speak with the Crownguard girl, but she didn't seem to have much of an interest in him. In fact, she didn't seem to have an interest in any boys. She was very guarded in that issue and often changed the subject whenever it was brought up.

So that just left Talon and Ezreal with their strange friendship.

He invited the boy out for a drink after the incident, but Talon was quickly alleviated of his troubles with Lux. He was back to his brooding self, but brooding about other things. Ezreal wasn't sure. The man was a quiet man and an even quieter drunk. Ezreal didn't think it was possible.

Stranger still, Talon's closest friends were Draven and Darius. Ezreal wondered if they preferred Talon because he was near silent. But after watching several interactions, Ezreal concluded that the three had a rather tight companionship, albeit an odd one. And now he found himself a part of it.

There have been some responses to it, some more unsavoury than others. Many Demacians opposed to him being near the men after hours, some were curious, but most did not like it.

Maybe it was his naïveté, his young age, his immaturity or maybe the novelty of the situation, but Ezreal enjoyed their time together. It was fun and it was new. He felt included. And maybe that's what he needed, the inclusion.

Draven had been with some girls who recognized him from the League (though, who wouldn't with his garish ponytail and moustache?). It was Draven's thing—he loved being in the spotlight and he was a slut for attention. He loved it, he longed for it. He often had girls hanging around him whenever they did go out to a more larger club of sorts. Darius would never let him bring any one of them home—he was a stickler for personal hygiene and he was quick to call them whores to which Draven would whine and bitch, but never full out argue with his dear elder brother.

Tonight, Draven had no plans to bring a girl home as he looked to be intending to do whatever there and then. They were lip locked and up against each other within the crowds, pulsating to the music.

Talon was drunk and had his upper body sprawled across their table, leaving barely enough room for Darius to put down his drink. The older Blood Brother seemed to be performing some sort of surveillance on his younger, but he didn't seem too interested to keep watching. As for Ezreal, he was talking to a girl, a fan actually, a fan girl? He didn't know, but she seemed far into their conversation, her bright eyes boring into his own as she talked animatedly about his matches or something or another.

Draven was still in the midst of the dancers, head bent down, necking with whoever was out there. It made something stir in Ezreal's gut; maybe it was the alcohol, or how the music rattled his ears, or maybe it was seeing someone he fancied being in an embrace of another.

So, Ezreal, being the immature brat he was, grabbed the girl's hand, cutting off another of her sentences, to pull her along to the dance floor where he kissed her, much to her excitement, or so he believed. He was sure his own mouth tasted of alcohol, but her's was a whole lot nicer. Maybe it was the sweet mead she brought with her to his table, but she didn't taste too unpleasant. It was the softness of her lips combined with her slim waist that got to him and made the attraction fall way down to the pits of hell. She was pretty, but he could never—

"What the fuck?"

She pushed him away with a disgusted look on her face. Shit.

A larger man approached them from behind her and he looked just as pissed as she was, if not more pissed.

He was probably her boyfriend, Ezreal concluded rather late, because he was already being held by the neck and being punched in the face. Wham! Another solid hit. The world whirled around him and he felt dizzy and he definitely felt a strong, strong need to vomit. The man pulled his fist back to prepare another. Ezreal watched weakly as his face felt too hot from the lack of oxygen and probably from the battery.

In a blur of colours, he felt himself no longer be suspended by the angry fist around his neck, but the strong forearms propping him up by his armpits to prevent him from hitting the ground. He lolled his head back to see Talon's nostrils. Ah. So it seems.

Ezreal struggled to lower his head and to keep it levelled. Darius had an iron grip on the man, and before he could even sniff an angry sneer, he let the him scramble away, girlfriend in tow. Ezreal barely let out a slurred thanks.

Darius walked over to him and took hold of his shoulders. It was amazing that Talon held him up for that long, he was drunker than both of them combined and was already wavering to the toilets.

"Can you stand?" he asked curtly. Ezreal shook his head. Then paused. Then nodded. Darius let go of his shoulders and Ezreal staggered back to their table. Darius followed him closely. "I don't think it's wise for you to stay. Go home." Ezreal had nodded again, nice and slowly as to not let his brain slosh around too much. His head was still pounding at that moment, the hits couldn't have been too good for his brain to take. Darius leaned down slightly, a bit hesitant. "Do you know where home is?"

"Of course," was what Ezreal had meant to say, but he heard some garbled gibberish stream from his mouth instead and then he wasn't too sure anymore. Darius gently took his elbow and led him outside. The chilly night air cooled his temples and the quiet calmed his mind and he could almost think straight. He leaned against the cold wall, head tilted back, waiting for his head to stop ringing. It felt as if his flesh and bone were vibrating and bouncing off of each other, jostled still from all the punches. It didn't help that it made his vision all blurry and he found it was difficult to focus, like seeing through dirty goggles. His jaw ached, too, seemingly to hang off his skull in protest. Ezreal could already feel the swelling building on his cheeks.

The door opened beside them and Talon stumbled out, slurring his words. Ezreal paid no heed, not because he didn't want to, but because it caused him far too much pain and suffering to do so. Darius turned to him,

"Ezreal, you okay to walk home?"

The Piltovian squinted at him, barely making out his features through his spinning headache. He could probably make it. Or he could fall down on the side of the road and be eaten alive by the wildlife. It was going to be quite the adventure either way.

Darius gave him a short impatient look. "Yeah, yeah," the Piltovian had assured, waving him off.

Ezreal scoffed again to himself, squeezing the pillow tight. He had fallen twice on the way to Caitlyn and Vi's, but he had been able to pick himself up. Talon probably had a good laugh while following him. Good thing he had been drunk—he might not even remember it happening at all.

Shifting so he was on his back instead of his side, Ezreal let his head rest on the pillow. What to make of the night? He kissed a girl without her consent and then righteously beat by her boyfriend until Darius peeled him off. Draven wasn't even there to see the ordeal, so maybe Ezreal could still salvage whatever reputation he had.

Bah.

His head was starting to hurt again with all the thinking and regretting. It was time for sleep and so he slept, the best he could.

 


	2. Two

Talon invited him over the next day and, rather begrudgingly, Ezreal agreed. The Piltovian wasn't certain of what the man had planned, but as soon as he opened the door, Ezreal could plainly see he was in some pain.

"Hangover," Talon explained shortly. He wasn't in his signature cloak, just a simple shirt and long pants. Ezreal figured he might have just gotten up from bed. He watched as Talon made his way, slowly, to the kitchen and he followed him in. The Noxian put a kettle on the stove before he went to press his forehead against the marble of his counters. He groaned lowly.

"You drink too much," Ezreal commented, hopping up to sit on the counter. Talon groaned again.

"Go hard or go home, Ez," he mumbled. Ezreal shook his head despite the grin on his face.

"I'm guessing we won't be doing much, since you're all out of commission," Ezreal said thoughtfully. "I thought we could spar or go explore that trail, or something."

"Just read to me."

"I am not your babysitter."

Talon let out another long groan. "My head hurts, Ez. Come on, help a friend out."

Ezreal stopped to consider the situation. He was tired too, head still feeling sore. He supposed he also wasn't too keen to embark on any strenuous journey, not that a little headache was to be an excuse. With a resigned tone, "I'll read the newspaper."

"Perfect. Educational and entertaining."

\--

Ezreal was sitting on Talon's bed, back against the headboard. His mug of tea was on the side table and the newspaper in his hands. Talon was shrivelled up beside him, his head resting on Ezreal's knee, the headache still going strong.

"Hm. Looks like a new pair of junglers are joining the League."

"Two at once?" Talon asked weakly.

"No. Well. Kind of." Ezreal flipped the page, the sharp crinkling making Talon furrow his brows. Suddenly, he laughed before letting out a pained groan. "What are you doing?" Ezreal frowned, putting down the paper.

"I just remembered you got wrecked last night."

Annoyed, "Says you," Ezreal retorted.

"What were you thinking?"

"I don't know," Ezreal replied sourly. Talon peered up at him with a thoughtful look.

"You don't know?" Talon asked. Ezreal didn't respond. Talon reached up with a hand and gave him a firm pat on the cheek. "You are not so subtle, friend." Ezreal twisted his head away.

"Come on now, watch that bruise," he said with a wince.

"Sorry." Talon folded his hands together and watched Ezreal continue to read with a concerned expression. He was struck with some wonderment about the lengths that Ezreal would recklessly go. Ezreal could be so smart and knowledgeable in his field of exploration, survival, and arcane magic, but he didn't seem to be able to use the same rhythm of logic and apply it elsewhere. The Noxian almost snorted aloud. Ezreal could really, really be stupid at times.

"He knows, Ezreal," Talon remarked. "Again, you are not so subtle."

"Does Darius?"

"Probably," Talon shrugged.

"Must be good then, he hasn't killed me for lusting after his dear little brother," Ezreal said, with some jest. Talon cracked a smile.

"He is quite protective over him."

"Quite is quite the understatement."

Talon shifted, the sheets wrinkling beneath him. He chewed his lip before speaking. "Draven isn't one for committed relationships."

Ezreal peered from behind the paper. "You trying to say something?"

"I'm trying to warn you from harbouring any feelings for him. He isn't interested in that."

Ezreal grimaced. It was a bit too late now.

Talon continued, "He's Draven. Handsome, strong, cold as ice. I reckon he needs nothing more than the incessant attention of men and women alike."

"He is very handsome," Ezreal agreed absentmindedly. Talon poked his cheek.

"You stop that nonsense," he said with a frown.

"If only I could, Talon."

\--

Darius leaned over the papers in his home office, trying to concentrate. They were documents needing to be signed, something about weapons and funding, but his head was fuzzy and slow due to having little sleep the night before. Draven had been a petulant child, arguing and whining all the way home from the club. It didn't help that he continued to do so back in their abode—yelling about how it wasn't fair, about how he was a grown man and if he was willing to risk sexually transmitted diseases, then he should be allowed to. Darius was a disciplined man, but the thought of Draven contracting any unsavoury ailments, it made his soul burn.

He had yelled back at him, raising his voice far too much. And he had regretted it the rest of the night.

He didn't need to raise his voice often—it was not an approach he was accustomed to. He would usually let his actions do the speaking—far easier to get the point across if he were to behead someone. And he didn't like to raise his voice often, he knew that Draven didn't like it. He was terrified of it.

Draven could be a cocky mess at times, but he was only being himself. He found his self-esteem through executing criminals through garish means, after a childhood of fear and misgivings and traumatic experiences. He had been much younger than Darius when their parents were slaughtered, the trauma fresher and louder.

After being berated, Draven retreated to his room and Darius just knew that he was still in there, sulking to himself.

He inhaled deeply and put down the papers. It was about two o'clock in the afternoon, it was an acceptable time to wake someone up.

He left his study and went upstairs to the bedrooms and knocked on Draven's door.

"Draven."

It was met with silence. How typical.

"I'm coming in," Darius warned sternly. He put his hand on the knob, half-expecting Draven to be on the other side, waiting for him to lean forwards so he could rip the door open to trip him. It was a childish act and it was to be expected from a childish person. He huffed.

Darius pushed open the door with little resistance to find that Draven was still in bed, back facing him with the covers pulled over his shoulders.

Darius approached and looked at his brother who glared at him in return. His hair was a mess of brown, flowing and tangling amongst the pillows and sheets. He still looked upset.

Here we go. "I'm sorry for yelling at you last night, but it's time to get up. It's two in the afternoon, Draven." Darius sat down onto the edge of the bed and rested his elbows against his knees.

"I didn't say come in," replied a sour Draven.

Darius rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, flopping backwards onto the sheets. "I'm sorry, alright?" He lifted a hand and prodded at his little brother's chin. "I didn't mean to yell at you like that. I didn't mean to scare you and I'm sorry."

Draven pulled his chin under his covers. "You didn't scare me."

His brother gave him nothing more than a skeptical gaze and silence.

Draven bristled and pulled the covers tighter around him. He changed the subject, "When are you going to let me bring people home?"

"When they're not whores, Draven."

"Well, that's not very nice, Darius, she's very proud of her work."

Darius rolled his eyes, ignoring the last comment as he was reminded of something else. Something of equal, if not greater, importance. "When are you going to talk to Ezreal?"

Draven looked confused. "Why do I need to talk to Ez?"

Darius scoffed. "He's enamoured with you. Go let him down gently, please. He's just a kid and he's naive—almost got seriously injured last night during some sort of strange attempt for your attention."

"He did?" Draven frowned in contemplation. Darius narrowed his eyes. There was a familiar look of determination on his little brother's face.

"Please don't do whatever you're thinking. I ask of you as your only beloved brother."

"Darius, he's not a whore."

"That. That shouldn't be the only requirement, Draven."

Ignoring him, "Why didn't you tell me of this sooner?"

Appalled, "I assumed you knew!" Darius exclaimed in disbelief. "Ezreal isn’t very subtle." Draven didn't appear to be paying any attention, seemingly to be much too deep in thought.

"Darius, do you think he'd prefer coffee or booze?"

The elder sat up on the bed, "Draven, you are not asking the Piltovian out. I am not keen to hear Talon's complaints."

"Oh, Talon can piss off," Draven muttered, throwing off the covers. He kicked the remaining corner with his feet. "Draven's a willing player. Let's try."

Darius walked up to his brother and placed a hand on his shoulder. Holding his gaze steady, "Please rethink this."

Draven clapped both his hands to either side of his Darius' face and leaned towards him, feigning a concerned expression. Their identically sharp noses just hovered centimetres apart from each other, their equally dark eyelashes threatening to touch.

"Never," Draven whispered.

Before Darius could even begin to retaliate, to plead, Draven shut himself in the bathroom and turned the shower on. The misty static of droplets of water falling filled the halls as Darius made his way back to his study. He contemplated on calling Talon, to give him a heads up of sorts. Darius was more than a veteran to the romantic undertakings Draven had garnered over the years. It was never pretty.

Maybe it was the people Draven was attracted to, maybe it was people attracted to Draven, but it always ended in a somewhat putrid, decaying fashion. Darius had just resolved into the fact Draven was a horrible lover and a horrible partner. He could be selfish and he could be dramatic and he most certainly could be thoughtless at times. It was just his nature. And it was awful.

Which was why Darius was uncomfortable with Ezreal having a thing or two for his brother. The young man was a sweet thing of kindness and competitive cheer. It was always a pleasure to have his youthful exuberance bouncing around them. The Noxians could be stagnant and flat out boring as company, all brooding, all serious—with the exception of Draven, he was just crass. To have that mixed with the only ray of sunshine in the group, well, it was like mixing brown paint into yellow and being surprised it gets muddy.

And knowing the history of Draven's escapades of love—Darius just knew if it were to go sour, Ezreal wouldn't be back.

Hell, Darius wasn't sure if he'd be back, either.

With the weight of the phone in his hand, Darius analyzed the situation. He already hounded the poor boy enough, treating him like one of his own, treating him much like Draven. Ezreal probably didn't need anymore shadowing or supervision, he was a grown man. He didn't need Darius' guidance at all times, right? He probably had enough of it back home in Piltover from his real parents.

"Darius!"

He put down the phone and looked to the door of his study. Draven was dressed and his hair was down and towel dried. Darius was cautious of Draven's need for him, especially with the hair brush he held in his hand accompanied by the expectant expression.

"What?" Darius squinted. He hadn't totally prepared himself and he felt prone.

Waving the hair brush, "Can you braid my hair real quick?"

\--

Ezreal tucked Talon into his sheets. He was still curled pathetically on his side, groaning about his headaches and upset stomach. The pallid bags hanging beneath his eyes and the furrowed brows above corroborated with the complaints and Ezreal finally took pity. He meandered to the kitchen with the goal of retrieving a glass of water for the Noxian.

He returned and Talon was now on his back. He opened one eye weakly and said a strained thanks before taking a sip. One sip turned into three gulps and then he was back under the sheets, grumbling quietly about never drinking alcohol again. Ezreal scoffed. Talon would never be able to give up drinking. It was as native to him as breathing air.

Ezreal climbed back onto the bed and settled against a propped up pillow. He pulled the paper out again, holding it between his hands as he flipped through for an article he hadn't covered yet, though he found it hard to concentrate because of what Talon had said. Of course, Ezreal was already resigned to the fact that dating the executioner was nothing more than a bubbly fantasy, but to have Talon confirm it, well, Ezreal felt too grounded in reality. Maybe it was why the Noxians were always so serious and brooding. Too much reality.

Ezreal scratched his head absentmindedly. It was a stupid crush, really. There was nothing of loving substance in Draven's being—he just wasn't partner material. Which was a shame.

Talon made a faint pained noise. "It's getting worse. Is that even possible?" he mumbled. He grabbed the pillow from beneath his head and held it tight over his forehead. He groaned into it as Ezreal gave him a sympathetic pat on the knee.

"Need anything?" Ezreal asked quietly. "Water? Tea?"

Talon slowly shook his head, his pillow still clamped tightly over his forehead. "Might just try to nap. You're dismissed, but feel free to stay." He paused. "Please do."

Ezreal pretended to take a long time to consider deeply. "Can I at least go home to pick up some books? There's a guide I've been meaning to finish reading."

From under the pillow still, "Yeah. But be quick. I don't want to die in my sleep today."

"Might help to keep the airways clear," Ezreal noted with a smile. Talon gave a muffled sarcastic laugh as the Piltovian pulled his shoes on.

It would be a quick journey. Both of them lived near the centre of the League, instead of their respective states. Ezreal set on his path home for the books and scrolls in the late afternoon chill, mind preoccupied.

\--

"Talon, I've brought food—"

Ezreal looked down at the objects that hadn’t been there prior to his leaving. He gently shut the door behind him, locking it as he went through a list in his mind. The boots were small, probably a woman's. They were polished and laced neatly, the black leather neatly decorated with tiny silver spikes . He shifted the bags from his other hand as he made his way into the house, unsure of who he was to be expecting.

"In the kitchen," Talon called out. So the kitchen it was.

Talon was hunched in his seat, an empty glass between his hands. He looked exasperated and, quite frankly, still exhausted beyond hell. He gestured with his head to the visitor leaning against the counters. Katarina gave him a cold look, but didn't acknowledge him further.

She turned back to Talon. "Just let me know," she said, returning to their conversation. She uncrossed her arms and straightened up. "As soon as possible," she continued, menace dripping from her words. Talon waved her off.

"I will, Katarina."

She gave a sniff and promptly left, leaving a wake of cold unease. Talon didn't seem to be affected by it, not in the least. Once Ezreal heard the front door shut with a firm click, he turned to the Noxian, but he beat him to it.

Talon raised a hand, "Noxian business. Stupid, stupid Noxian business." Which meant Talon wasn't allowed to indulge him with any idea of what it could be. Especially since Ezreal was from Piltover. There were still political dissent between the states and their allies, even with the League forging its through to be the mediator. History simply couldn't be forgotten.

Talon got off his chair and relieved Ezreal of the bags. He put them on a table and rifled through them.

"Just some leftovers. We could just reheat it for dinner."

"Sounds good," Talon agreed, pulling out the food containers.

As a Piltovian, Ezreal never really encountered the tension between the two powers of Demacia and Noxus. Piltover, being a significantly smaller state, backed Demacia, the two sharing a large wealth of knowledge and coins. Piltover was not as attuned to the warfare and violence as Demacia was, preferring to devote much of their own state funding into research, science, and exploration. They were really researchers—not missionaries, not soldiers, not fighters. Just pursuers of invention and knowledge. And growing up in that environment, Ezreal never felt the threat of Noxus, the threat of enemy states. He spent much of his life reading books and exploring ancient ruins and deciphering antique maps. It was not until the gauntlet forced him into the League when he became fully aware of the rising tensions.

He looked to Talon standing by the gas stove, heating up their meals. It was strange to think that this man before him, his friend whom he trusted, led a life of business outside of the League, working with the inner Noxian factions, towards a conflicting political goal. With the Demacian influence on Piltover, certain strains of propaganda and fear mongering leaked into the state into his home nation. Noxians were dehumanized and reduced into evil minions of the Noxus state, depicted as the epitome of darkness and death and starvation.

Ezreal picked at the table cloth. Though it apparently wasn't too far from the posters according to Darius. He had mentioned once of the poverty and the desperation found in the poorer areas in Noxus. He had spoken with a matter-of-fact tone of voice, one that Ezreal has yet to be accustomed to, the rather indifferent attitude towards those suffering. Ezreal grew up in a society where there were efforts to combat poverty, where equality was somewhat idealized. It seemed in Noxus, survival and personal strength were emphasized and valued instead. It seemed a little backwards to him, but he tried to understand. He really did.

With the soft cacophonous choir of pots and pans clanging and creaking in the background, Ezreal finally sat himself down by the kitchen table.

He then aptly became aware that the three Noxians he did know well and exhibited the rather individualist ideals—they all happened to be well off. He leaned back into the chair, frowning.

Darius was the Noxian general; respected, highly venerated and highly ranked and from what Ezreal had gathered, it seemed to be a lofty job of much wealth and power. As for his brother Draven, he was a celebrated celebrity over in Noxus, complete with fans and the like for a very Noxian reason; the mastery of killing, the art of execution.

Talon turned off the gas stove with a mild click, the sharp sound bringing Ezreal out of his thoughts. He watched from across the kitchen as the Noxian ladened the food into serving bowls and paired each with an utensil.

What did Talon do for a living? He didn't speak much of his job and obligations, but due to his nature during the games as a Champion, one can easily surmise that the man occupied a life of stealth and silence. Ezreal always figured he was an assassin for some bigshot family. Talon seemed to have a cozy living just by having two homes to his name combined with the fact that he had to keep his business under such tight wraps, well, it indicated that he was tied up often in the affairs of powerful families or political parties.

Talon sat down with the bowls of food and gave him an odd look. "And what are you thinking about?"

"You kill people for a living," Ezreal said pointedly. Talon squinted before lifting his spoon.

"Yeah. We, uh, all kind of do, Ez," he said.  

Ezreal frowned. "Right."

"Right. Now eat up, your slow thinking is freaking me out."

"Shut up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Zjol.

**Author's Note:**

> Back to League of Legends. Zjol.


End file.
